


In Between Days

by EvilEd



Category: The Young Ones (TV 1982)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Self-Destruction, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:08:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22183855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilEd/pseuds/EvilEd
Summary: Set on the same day as Boring. Vyv's having some issues after seeing his mother again.
Relationships: Vyvyan Basterd/Rick (Young Ones)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	In Between Days

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. Flickin through my notebook, found some angst, typed it up... Bon Appétit. Title's taken from the song of the same name by the Cure (because Ed won't allow ONE fic to slip by without tying it to a song in some way). Am I projecting onto Vyvyan AGAIN? Very probably. Hope you enjoy!

Some days, it sticks.

Not _all_ the time, and certainly not so much anymore. But some days he wakes up with an ache in his chest and an itch across his arms and a tangled mess of foggy, half-formed thoughts tumbling around the inside of his head. Often, it passes by breakfast time. A bowl of cornflakes, a fight with Rick, and all’s well with the world. He forgets all about it by lunch. It’s a ghost of a memory by teatime. And it’s just one of those things, really. An unfortunate side effect. A relic. It’s not nice, but it’s alright. He makes do. God knows he hasn’t really got much of a choice. He pushes it back, takes his meds whenever he can bloody afford them (in _secret_ , mind. If anyone found out he’d never hear the end of it) and keeps calm and carries on. Pulls himself up by the bootstraps, just like he’s supposed to do.

But sometimes, it sticks.

Some days there just isn’t anything to distract him. Things are so desperately boring, he couldn’t shift it if he tried. Some days are for Monopoly and Bastard Squad and trips to the pub, which only exacerbates his questionable state of mind (though admittedly _does_ relieve some of the boredom) by reuniting him with the woman who had fucked him up so irreparably in the first place. A woman he hadn’t seen since he was about nine or ten. A woman who seems as unapologetic for her abandonment as she is unimpressed by her son’s reemergence. A woman who’d rather try and get off with Mike than talk to the child she brought into the world.

Yes, some days things stick. And sometimes things _sting_ much worse than they should.

The sewing needle, unfortunately, is not one of them. And either is the vodka against the back of his throat. It goes down easily, without much feeling, and the needle slips in and out of his skin like butter, leaving nothing but droplets of blood, puckered skin and crooked cotton stitches in its wake. If asked, he will cite experimental medical practices. The lie will go unnoticed – it isn’t so far-fetched. This isn't exactly the first time.

The tears that make tracks across his cheeks and pool in the crevices of his nose will, he hopes, be gone by morning. There might be some flakes of dry, irritated skin around his mouth and nose, but it will hardly look amiss hidden amongst the already inflamed bouts of acne that litter his face. He isn’t quite sure how long he’s been in the bathroom, but he thinks it must have been a good long while. Neil’s already tried to come in twice. If the stupid hippie realises there’s no lock on the door – that there hasn’t _been_ a lock on the door since Vyv smashed it to pieces in a fit of rage two months ago – he’ll really be in trouble. But he thinks the chances of Neil having any sort of revelation is pretty bloody slim.

It doesn’t even occur to him that someone else might want the bathroom until Rick bursts in with a huff, dressed in his stupid girly robe and slippers. And he doesn’t realise just how _much_ he’s been crying until the poet gasps, leaps into the bath with him and cups his face to wipe away streams of tears with the pads of his thumbs.

“Vyvyan? What’s wrong? What’s happened? You’re bleeding!”

He wants to say something. _Do_ something. Threaten the bastard, tell him to piss off and mind his own business. Beat his face in, yell, push him away. _Anything_. Instead, the words that come out of his mouth are weak – raw and trembling. It isn’t his voice, and it’s not like anything he’s ever said before. But there’s more truth and sincerity in it than any other words he’s ever spoken.

“She left me to die when I was a kid. And she doesn’t bloody care. She’s not even sorry.”

He doesn’t know what he expects from Rick. Scorn, hatred. A vile snort and a cruel joke at his expense. He certainly doesn’t expect kindness.

He doesn’t know how to react when Rick hugs him. When warm hands linger at the base of his neck. When he’s rocked back and forth and held tightly against the poet’s chest, and when his pathetic sobs aren’t met with disdain or disgust but _sympathy_. Empathy. He can feel the tears on Rick’s cheeks as well as his own, sniffles in the back of both their throats, and he’s so bloody _dumbstruck_ by this turn of events that his hands somehow find their way around Rick’s waist and cling to him like a lifeline. He wants to shut up, to stop talking, but the words seem to pour out of his mouth before he has a chance to stop them.

“She doesn’t care about me. She never did. Maybe nobody does. Maybe - ”

“Ssh. People care, Vyv. Mike cares, Neil cares. And… I care, Vyv. So you can just ruddy well forget about her, alright? She’s nothing to you. You’re better than her.”

“M’not.” Vyv sobs. It comes out as a sort of hiccupping burp, and makes him feel even more pathetic than before.

“You bloody well are!” Rick presses their foreheads together, forces the punk to look at him. “You’re amazing, Vyv. Blimmin’ amazing. Clever and witty and funny, and you’re worth ten of her. A hundred of her! She’s _nothing_. Come here, let me look. Did you do this?”

Rick’s grip on Vyv’s bleeding hands is gentle, soft and steady as he holds them in place. Nail scissors are cribbed from the bathroom cabinet. Stitches cut, entry points meticulously cleaned and bandaged. He half expects the poet to kiss them better after he’s finished, and is genuinely concerned by how little that would bother him.

“Let’s get you to bed.” Rick whispers, and when he stands up Vyv’s arms are around him once again, face buried in the crook of his neck.

“Don’t leave me alone.” Vyv responds with a whimper. They cling to each other as they walk down the hall.

“I won’t. I promise.”

Vyvyan’s brain is foggy from the crying, from the vodka, and his thoughts are erratic and difficult to pin down. But the only thing that crosses his mind with any real degree of clarity is that this is _Rick_. The person he hates most in the whole entire world, more than _anyone,_ including his mother. The person he spends more than half his time berating, bullying and knocking about is currently stripping him out of his sweaty, bloodstained clothes and helping him put on his pajamas. Stroking his hair and wiping the snot off his face.

And he _knows_ it’s just a one-off. He knows that come tomorrow morning, things will be back to normal, and he’ll be chasing Rick around the house with an axe or stuffing his mattress with spiders. But this, here, tonight. It signifies something important between them, something that won’t easily be forgotten. Because as the poet is helping him into bed and pulling the blankets around both of them, Vyv realises he’d do the same thing for Rick. For all their fighting, scrapping, trying to kill each other, this was what the real heart of their relationship boiled down to. A fierce need to protect one another, and a sentimental streak that only came out under the most dire of circumstances. It's just how things are. Loyalty and obligation. And it will be gone in a few hours, dissipate into the rage and hatred they both know so well. He _knows_ that.

But sometimes, just sometimes…things stick. And even though he knows this isn’t one of those things, he can’t help but hope that maybe, just for a little while…

Maybe this will.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading guys! Hope you liked it!


End file.
